


Atarinkë

by potatoesanddreams



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Family Angst, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Fatherhood, Nargothrond, Years of the Trees
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:48:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22748083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/potatoesanddreams/pseuds/potatoesanddreams
Summary: A triptych on fatherhood. Curufinwë Atarinkë was, in addition to being practically a copy of his father, the only Son of Fëanor to have a child of his own.
Relationships: Celebrimbor | Telperinquar & Curufin | Curufinwë, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 40





	1. Thesis

**Author's Note:**

> Atarinkë - Curufin's mother-name; means "little father"  
> Calamirë - The name I've given to Curufin's wife  
> Makalaurë - Maglor

Curufinwë had been feeling restless anyway, and when he heard the baby begin to fuss he slipped at once out of bed, picking his way to the crib in the corner by the hint of silver light that filtered round the edges of the curtains. His son blinked up at him for a moment, gray eyes among silver shadows, then screwed up his face again and went on crying. Curufinwë’s heart twisted – this was perfectly ordinary in a baby and there was no need for distress – as he reached gently into the crib and lifted the child from his place. He was still crying, kicking his little legs, and Curufinwë’s hands knew how to hold a precarious burden, but his heart thudded very hard in his chest and he worried, am I squeezing him too tight, was that last sob because I’ve hurt him, am I really giving his head enough support? He settled the baby carefully into his arms, head secure at last in the crook of his elbow, and held him close. Don’t cry, my own one, my namesake. He thought he should not sing for fear of waking Calamirë, but then the baby let out a muffled scream against his chest, and he almost laughed at himself before starting in on the first lullaby he could think of.

He was no Makalaurë, and his voice was husky with sleep, but the melody was simple and so were the words: a song about starlight. He listened for Calamirë stirring behind him but heard nothing, and so he kept singing, first that song and then another, until his son had settled in his arms with his eyes shut and his fingers tangled in Curufinwë’s loose hair. Then he too settled into silence, feeling the soft warm weight of his son against his bosom, the tiny motions as the child breathed, in and out and in, slowing to the rhythm of sleep. Curufinwë stood steady; he could feel his own heartbeat, deep and quiet within him, measuring out the passing moments while he held his child in his arms. He did not even try to keep count.

Gentle fingertips brushed his shoulder, and he came to himself. Perhaps there was a touch of gold now in the faint silver light. Calamirë settled her hand on his shoulder, coming to stand beside him, looking down at their son for a moment before raising her eyes to his face. “He’s asleep, my dear,” she whispered. “So should you be. You have been far too long awake.”

“I did sleep,” he protested, ever so softly.

Her laugh was a ripple in the stillness. “For an hour? Go back to bed, little father; I will take my turn with the baby.”

He had been looking at her while she spoke, and he gazed at her still, his expression frozen and his body utterly unmoving, until her brow furrowed and she squeezed his shoulder. “Curvo? Are you well?”

But the corners of his mouth moved, and then he smiled as if a dam were breaking, as if the Treelight had overtopped the heights of the Pelóri and spilled down their farther slopes – and he raised up the child in his arms and pressed a kiss to his brow, though his son woke and made noises of protest at being disturbed. “Was it for this,” Curufinwë was murmuring, again and again, as though he had not quite grasped what would come after. Suddenly he turned to Calamirë, and kissed her, and then kissed again the child in his arms. “Was it for this my mother named me?” he asked them both, though neither had an answer for him; and he laughed in wonder, soft and bright. Then he pressed close against his wife, and she bowed her forehead to meet his, and put her arms around their son so that both were cradling him.

The warmth of their three bodies mingled, and the child’s hands were tangled still in Curufinwë’s hair.


	2. Antithesis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've used Quenya names because I think that's how Curufin would think of people, even after a long time in Beleriand.
> 
> In order of use:
> 
> Findaráto - Finrod  
> Arafinwë - Finarfin  
> Curufinwë - Curufin; I'm also going with the fanon that Curufinwë is Celebrimbor's father-name  
> Artaresto - Orodreth  
> Tyelkormo - Celegorm  
> Gorthaur - Sindarin name for Sauron  
> Telperinquar - Celebrimbor

Nargothrond’s mourning was vicious.

It was not long since those first of Sauron’s prisoners had come stumbling into the hidden city with news of Findaráto’s death upon their lips. A very heroic, very tragical end – Arafinwë ought to be proud when he hears of it, if they tell him, Curufinwë had thought carelessly, before turning his attention to the more pressing implications of the situation. For Nargothrond was not frozen by grief, but set ablaze; and had he and his brother not swiftly been dragged by guards before the king, when the rumors began to spread, they might have suffered a worse fate at the hands of the people.

He could not say what he was thinking – which was _how dare you_ , how _dare_ you blame us for what you did. You chose this course, we only persuaded you of it – _you_ listened to us, _you_ sent him away, and now in your spinelessness you have turned against us, because you were startled at the consequences of your actions. Do you think we spoke as we did for petty spite? Willingly would we have remained as Findaráto’s guests, had he refused the mortal – but we have an Oath to keep, and we at least do not flee from the knowledge of what we have done.

Aloud, he assured Artaresto that neither he nor Tyelkormo had entertained such thoughts of treachery as their accusers claimed; and he was going to hint delicately that the power-hungry often tried to shift the burden of their guilty consciences onto the closest convenient target, but Artaresto held up his hand, and Curufinwë saw in the king’s face that continuing to speak would make no difference. The crowd pressed closer against the line of guards that separated them from the sons of Fëanor.

“Tell me not,” began Artaresto, “that you did not anticipate my uncle’s death, when you drove him from his own halls with a bare handful of warriors at his side. Neither tell me that you did so with grief – nor that you had the lives of the people of Nargothrond in mind! For if it had been so, then you yourselves would have gone with him to succor him, though you bade the rest of us remain. The prisoners come back to us from Gorthaur’s dungeons say that Lúthien daughter of Thingol dared to do what the Sons of Fëanor did not. Is it true, then, that you did not dare it? Tell me, was it ever prophesied that the Noldor should suffer from cravens, or the fear of cravens?”

Beside Curufinwë, Tyelkormo was a statue of white gold, his lip curled and his eyes fixed on the king. Curufinwë found himself looking for his son. Telperinquar had been with them when they were led into the hall, but now he had vanished like a shadow; Curufinwë could not find his face among the crowd, and he did not want to search too obviously. He returned his gaze to Artaresto. “Never was that prophesied,” he answered, at length. The trap was obvious, but what else could he say? That they were craven? That he would not do.

“No,” said Artaresto. “Our Doom was otherwise. Ours, and yours most clearly, Sons of Fëanor; for you have betrayed your kin, and that willingly, I deem. Yet – ” he raised his other hand, and then stood, for the crowd was baying so that Curufinwë’s ears rang. “Yet we will not slay you! For that too would be kinslaying, and would serve only to bind the Doom more tightly about us all. But my judgment is this: that you shall have neither food nor rest in these halls again – you shall set forth from here before nightfall, and never return; nor shall you ever again be called the friends of Nargothrond.”

“Let it be so!” said Tyelkormo lowly. Curufinwë smiled at that, and stared unspeaking and unblinking into Artaresto’s eyes for a long moment; then the guards closed ranks about them, and led them away from the throne.

Curufinwë looked restlessly about, but still he caught no glimpse of his son.

They were given a little time to gather such possessions as they could carry with them, and to change into suitable traveling clothes. Then they were led forth again, into the courtyard at Nargothrond’s gates. Two horses awaited them, tacked and restless. None of their people had come to join them, and Curufinwë’s heart tightened. Fickle, fickle, all were fickle and faithless – but he and his own would stand by what they had done, what they had sworn.

Tyelkormo strode forward before their guards could direct him, and busied himself wordlessly in checking the horses’ tack, running his hands suspiciously along the lengths of the reins and girths. Curufinwë stood a little away. He scanned the courtyard, gaze flickering across the small throng of Nargothrond’s ordinary folk who now stood clustered about the archway leading deeper into the city.

“Where is my son?” he said, his voice clear and carrying in the still air. There was a murmur or two among the folk who had come to witness their banishment, but no other answer. Curufinwë turned to the guards.

“Where is my son, I say? There are only two horses here. Shall he then ride before me in the saddle like a child? Or would you keep him from me?” His eyes were hard and sharp. “Answer me. Thinks your lord that he has the right to separate me from my own blood? Where is he?”

“I am here,” came another voice, and Curufinwë turned quickly.

Telperinquar was standing at the fore of the little crowd in the archway. He met his father’s eyes, and Curufinwë found himself faced with a gaze as hard and piercing as his own. Telperinquar stood with head high and shoulders flung back; his black hair was beginning to come loose of its braids. He was still dressed for court, and the embroidery on his tunic gleamed silver. “What would you have of me?”

Curufinwë was almost taken aback, but in a moment he recovered himself. “Send someone to fetch your horse, and go yourself to fetch proper traveling clothes, and whatever you cannot bear to be parted from. Why do you tarry?”

His son did not move. His eyes were level on Curufinwë’s, and in a low and steady voice he said, “I am not coming.”

A flash of cold followed by heat ran through Curufinwë’s limbs. The world seemed to shudder. Still he held himself straight and still. “Do not be foolish.”

“Foolish you may name me, or whatever else you please,” said Telperinquar, “but I will not come with you.” He took a step forward, away from the crowd at his back. The others in the courtyard were subdued; even Tyelkormo had left his inspection of the horses and was watching Telperinquar silently, the lines of his body rigid.

“The blood of King Findaráto is on your hands,” said Telperinquar, still steady. “You and your brother lusted after his crown, and in his own house you betrayed him to his death, and I do not believe you are ashamed. I will not follow such a lord as you have become.”

“You are my son, and would you speak so against me?” Curufinwë snarled. “Findaráto set himself willfully in the path of our Oath. We had no better choice.”

“Very well! But I swore no Oath,” answered Telperinquar, “and I will follow yours no further. Farewell!” He began to turn away.

Curufinwë felt his heart seize, and he cried out without calculation, so that his fury and his fear were both audible in his voice – “Curufinwë son of Curufinwë son of Curufinwë, you will follow _me_!”

Telperinquar paused, and looked back over his shoulder at his father for a long moment. His eyes were as gray and as cold as the Sea. “I renounce that name,” he said, softly but with precision. “I renounce you,” and turning away once more, he passed through the crowd and the archway, and disappeared into the dimness of Nargothrond.

Curufinwë looked after him, for what felt both a very short and a very long time. At last, becoming aware of the eyes of the crowd upon him, he met those of the foremost spectator and smiled until her gaze faltered; then he turned away with scorn, and swung to the back of his horse. From that height he stared down on the little throng that clustered in the archway, and he cursed them in his thought. But he spoke no word; nor did he speak again, until he and Tyelkormo were far out of sight of Nargothrond, and the trees were old and closely set around them. Then the mask of his expression broke to pieces, and his eyes grew wide and wild, and he turned to Tyelkormo with his face all twisted by grief. “Was it for this,” he began, and his voice was cracked and small. Then suddenly he cried out, so fiercely that the woods about them rang with the bitter echo – “Was it for _this_ my mother named me?”

Tyelkormo had no answer for him.


End file.
